Still Unresolved, Again

Checking my journal for 31 December, 2002 - gosh, twenty years ago - I came across this passage: 

I forgot to mention before that I finished Nickleby in KL. The most substantial bit of reading I managed in the rush of making the house livable. The last few chapters flagged a little though not as much as I feared they might. There was real power in the melodramatic sections and bursts of comedy everywhere. An amazingly energetic novel, and much better than critics might lead one to believe.

Realised this meant that it's been two decades since I last read a full novel by Dickens. I know this because with Nickleby I completed all the novels - feeling a bit disappointed there were no more to come, I seem to recall. The only longish thing I've read by the Inimitable since then was Sketches by Boz, which I recall reading in Melbourne, of all places, on one of our December jaunts.

I'm vaguely wondering whether to make a New Year's resolution of making a start on a read-through (or, rather, reread through) of all the major novels, but I doubt that I'll do so, lovely as that sounds. Just got too much on my plate, and still a number of classics of European lit to encounter, never mind stuff from other Far Places. Still, it's nice to contemplate getting immersed in, say, Martin Chuzzlewit to name but one. (A big favourite which I've only read once.)

Not Exactly Finished

I'm feeling a little bit pleased with myself for having completed my cover-to-cover reading of the first volume of The Complete Poems of Archie Ammons. When I excitedly embarked on reading the tome back in late May I don't think I envisaged it taking me the better part of seven months to get to 1977's Highgate Road, but then there were times I found myself so bogged down in particular poems (I'm thinking of Essay on Poetics, I'm thinking of Sphere, among others) that I saw myself still reading the volume in 2022 - not that I would have minded that, but I was keen to move onto Volume 2, or get back to William Carlos Williams (or Robert Lowell, whose big Collected Poems is in my sights.)

By the way, that final short book, Highgate Road, is a belter. Archie at his pithiest, in which mode he excels, as I was previously aware as a devoted fan of his little paperback, The Really Short Poems of A.R. Ammons. Actually, a few of the Highgate Road poems appear in the collection and it was wonderful encountering them in the bigger volume. Gorgeous stuff!

Oh, and I should finish off here by letting you know that I'm moving on with The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, Volume II: 1939 - 1962. Started last night with The Swaggering Gait and very happy to do so. The great thing about being a poetry-lover is that you really can't lose, eh?

The King Is Dead, Long Live The King

Earlier today I chanced a short bit of shaky video, featuring the last moment of King Crimson live. Felt tearful, not just because I'll never get to see the greatest band in the known universe again, but in response to the dignity of Robert uniquely taking the final bow alone.

The Greatest

Finished Ammons's wonderful The Snow Poems today. In a couple of the final sections I caught myself thinking/feeling: This is better than The Wasteland. And Four Quartets. Then thinking: I can't possibly say that; do I really think/feel so? Then thinking: But how about those two other brilliant long poems of the 20C - Crow and Omeros? Is it really better? Then thinking: But it doesn't matter does it? Comparisons are odious/odorous, even if great fun.

Now sort of regarding AA as my idea of the greatest poet (in the English language) of the 20C. But realising that there's quite a list of writers who've occupied that spot in my mind over the years, if only temporarily: Tom Eliot / Yeats / Auden / Robert Lowell / Ted Hughes / Heaney - and, I suppose, Thomas Hardy since nearly all his verse was published after 1900.

Odd that there're no women in my list. Plath, I guess, comes closest, but she seems so much like a special case with a limited body of work. My goodness, what if she'd have lived? Imagine what she might have done had she outlived TH! Also vaguely wondering about Carol Ann Duffy, but she straddles centuries. What if she has a final great period and goes somewhere quite new, a bit like Yeats, unlikely as the comparison sounds?

Again, all a bit pointless, but I find it sort of useful as a way of getting myself doing a bit of thinking.

Mr Teh Tarik - 6

Forgot to mention yesterday that one of the key features of our walk at East Coast Park was my discovery of the excellence of the teh tarik gajah prepared by the Ali Lagoon Corner stall (number 61) at the Lagoon Hawker Centre. Apologies for sounding hideously complacent again, but it's a public service sort of thing to let everyone know this. (Pictorial evidence above - the stall, not the actual tea which, sadly for the environment, came in a plastic cup. But that was the only downside of the experience.)

Sunday In The Park With Noi

We spent the best part of the morning revisiting our old stomping grounds at East Coast Park (pictorial evidence above, and below...) It was a good place to be. A few changes, in terms of new developments in cafes and the like; but lots of old friends, in terms of the splendid trees. Lots of people around also, but sometimes you need people, even if you prefer friendly trees.

Snow On Snow On Snow

I was quite wrong the other day when I confidently predicted I wouldn't see snow on Christmas Day. I've been deeply immersed in the stuff for those parts of the day when I enjoyed reading some segments of Archie Ammons's deeply imaginative immersive epic The Snow Poems. 

When I started on the long poem I forgot that I could easily check the dates of the individual poems comprising the whole in the notes at the back of Volume 1, 1955 - 1977 of The Complete Poems, so I didn't realise, until I checked this morning, that by an odd coincidence I'd reached the poem written on the actual Christmas Eve of 1975 and in the sequence of days that followed (Ammons  writing a poem a day) there was plenty of snow around - wonderfully represented in the great poet's endlessly inventive versifying.

Actually I'd not enjoyed the previous long poem sequence in the volume, Sphere, the Form of a Motion, from 1974, as much as I'd expected I would. It struck me as an unusually abstract, obscurely difficult work. I appreciated it without loving it, if you know what I mean, and that implies a degree of struggling needed to keep going in places. So it was relief to find Ammons on absolute top form in his next extended sequence. Indeed, the editor of the Complete reckons that AA declared The Snow Poems his favourite of the long poems towards the end of his life. I'm finding it such a flowing read that I now think I might meet my target of completing Volume 1 by the year's end, but, I must say, I doubt I'll move right onto Volume 2, 1978 - 2005 next. I've been so immersed in this stuff for so long (the poetry, not the snow) that I think it might be time for a break and a return to progress on William Carlos Williams since I've still got the second volume of the WCW Collected to enjoy.

Compliments of the season to all and hoping you've had a good one, whether snowed in or tropically sweating, whether struggling or flowingly at ease, or whatever!

The Power Of Prayer

On the way to Friday Prayers just now I was listening to a BBC World Service programme related to the world of soccer. It's always a good listen as it features all sorts of interesting angles on the game and is genuinely international in flavour. The piece I caught was about the effects of their religious faith, specifically Christianity, on a couple of players from the EPL, one retired and another still in the game. Both came across as very likable guys with a real sense of groundedness about both their religion and the game. The retired player had only got going in the EPL when he was 27, after his conversion, and it was fascinating to hear how he attributed his late improvement as a player to a new-found sense of perspective resulting from his new-found faith. Anxiety issues that had plagued him since being dropped from the books of Charlton Athletic as a youngster dropped away from him.

He ended up playing for Portsmouth, in the Harry Redknapp era, where he crossed paths with the other player featured, who was in the youth team there during that time. In fact, the programme featured a lovely classic anecdote from Harry himself, relating to the senior player. It seems Harry couldn't find most of the Portsmouth team just before the big game when they were playing the mighty Man U, when the Mighty Reds really were Mighty - the Giggsy, Scholesy, Roy Keane team, three names Harry recalled from the team list he'd just seen. It turns out that his players, having seen the same list, thought it would be a good idea to attend an impromptu prayer meeting set up by the Christian guy - and Harry decided he would attend himself given his own sighting of the list. But then he gleefully chortled that Portsmouth actually won (at Old Trafford, if I'm not mistaken, though I might have got that bit wrong, and can't remember the game myself, probably because I don't want to.)

So there it is: absolute proof of the power of prayer, though painfully so from this perspective.

Not A White Xmas

We were sitting enjoying a cuppa this afternoon in a new coffeeshop in Clementi Mall. Since we'd never been in this spot before the view we were offered, mainly consisting of Clementi Primary School across the road, through some nice big windows, was quite striking for us. Admiring it, in between munching on tasty croissants, Noi suddenly said, more than a little longingly, If only it was snowing!

Gentle Reader, I was shocked. How anyone would want to look out on the dreadful flakes falling (and feel the attendant chill) is quite beyond my understanding. I'm entirely happy to be in a part of the world where we're definitely not going to suffer the archetypal Christmas freeze. I suppose it's no big surprise that my favourite carol is, In the Bleak Mid-Winter (the Holst version.)

New Words For Old

I was nattering to the Missus in the car this afternoon, on the way to the doctor's for the annual medical my employers require me to pass before they give me another contract, when I found myself saying the following, in relation to the latest in the news here related to the pandemic: I'm sure the government are watching very closely for an uptick in Omicron cases.... At this point I suddenly broke off, not because I was stunned by the depth of my rather obvious analysis, but because for the first time in my life, as far as I can remember, I'd used the word uptick out loud. In fact, I pointed out the fact this was so to Noi, who wasn't terribly impressed, probably because she didn't quite get what I was on about anyway, the term being understandably quite foreign to her.

I'm not sure if I was happy or horrified that I'd used the word instead of simply talking about an increase. But I was vaguely impressed at the odd capacity we have of picking up entirely new and cumbersome ways of saying the obvious, as if this came quite naturally.

In The Long Run

Did a fair amount of reading of various periodicals today accompanied by quite a bit of thinking, generally of a depressing nature. Then cheered up considerably upon reading this, quoted from Henry Gee in a review of his book A (Very) Short History of Life on Earth: 4.6 Billion Years in 12 Chapters: 'Against the backdrop of geological time the sudden rise of humanity is of negligible significance.' 

Sort of puts it in proportion, really.

Exceptional

Writing yesterday's post I was wondering whether to make some reference to the typhoon that hit parts of the Philippines over the weekend whilst I was talking about the flooding in Malaysia. I didn't make any such reference since I suppose I felt it would be over-doing the doom and gloom to do so and might add to my already uneasy sense of almost gloating over my own good luck in having such a peaceful life. 

Today I was mightily reminded of the closeness of the typhoon in several senses when Peter messaged about the damage it caused to Lia's hometown and other places. Fortunately it wasn't utterly disastrous for them, though worryingly there's some uncertainty concerning the welfare of one of Lia's brothers in another area that was badly hit. I was very struck by Pete's comment about the reactions to these events of Filipino people in general; he applauded their extraordinary mindset: No wailing or gnashing of teeth but calm acceptance, even humour, and the will to just rebuild and carry on.

And here's the strange thing. Just a few minutes after he'd posted those words I went out with Noi to do some shopping. As I was driving she was checking some of the videos appearing online related to the floods in her homeland. One featured a bit of a commentary by a guy who'd been visiting KL from abroad and he was praising the attitude of the Malaysians he'd encountered in terms very close to Peter's, talking of the amazing cheerfulness of those dealing with the misery and murk and mess of the flooding.

In all honesty, I get bothered by the smallest thing not going exactly as I want it to. It's humbling and embarrassing to reflect on the difference in attitude, though I'm not sure I can find the wherewithal to deal with this, except in trying to hide my lack of real resilience - and sensibly admiring the remarkable people who live in this part of the world.

Not Exactly Fair

Noi and I enjoyed a jolly good morning walking from Kent Ridge Park to Hort Park in pretty much perfect conditions regarding the weather. Then came back to hear more news about and view videos of the terrible flooding that's taken place over the weekend in Malaysia. Strange to think we might have had to endure the appalling conditions in Selangor were it not for our inability to travel due to the pandemic. Anyway, there are few signs of any real guilt in the pictures above, which is, in its way, appropriate, in just reflecting the way things are.

Still, hoping those not so lucky will be able to recover and get back to some sort of normality soon.  

All In The Mind

Yesterday evening I chanced upon an audiobook reading of Stephen King's Rage (the first of the series he wrote as Richard Bachman.) I listened to the first three chapters and was reminded of just how powerful this early novel is - and just how tightly written. Not a note out of place in the narrative voice of what we'd now call a school shooter. It struck me that when I first read the book there were no such things as such shootings, not that I was aware of then. I was also sort of surprised to learn that now the novel has been withdrawn from publication, by the writer himself, I believe. 

Spurred on by a quite possibly unhealthy interest in this disturbing intersection of fiction and reality I went on to read the whole book this morning. Funnily enough I'd retained enough of the details of the plot from when I first read the novel back in the 70s not to be surprised by its contents, except perhaps for a small sense of astonishment at just how accomplished a writer King was right from the start. But I was surprised at just how weirdly prescient the work is. I can imagine that the writer might even feel guilty about this product of his imagination; I actually felt guilty reading it.

Something Like Normal

Attended Friday Prayers at Masjid Darussalam for the fourth time in as many weeks - and managed to get a slot at the 'usual' time, in the first slot. So far it's been easy booking a slot. Hope this continues. 

Is this a sign of something like a return to normality? Can't be too hopeful, I'm afraid, what with the Omicron variant and attendant matters. But it is satisfying that this central pillar of life seems to be re-establishing its rightful place.

Out And About, Again

It's been a long, long time since I've been able to use the gym. I think the last time I was there was in June, just as our second semester began. Since that time the gym has been either out of bounds due to the rising numbers related to the pandemic, or I've had problems with my back which have precluded any attempt at real exercise. (I'm not sure the 'or' is correct there - I've got a feeling that the obstacles have run concurrently, but I might be a bit muddled.)

I'm now trying to get out walking on a more regular basis as a way of getting at least some degree of exercise. Thankfully the problem of my cranky left leg seems to have gone into remission, and I've nearly completed the latest round of medication related to that. Must admit I wasn't best pleased when my back doc decided to keep me on the meds for another two weeks following my last appointment since the problem seemed resolved back then, but he detected some lingering degree of stiffness in the area and I thought it best to be a good boy and do what I was told was good for me. However, I'm convinced that keeping those muscles moving is the best way to fight off decrepitude, hence the attempts to get some serious walking done.

Yesterday the Missus and I enjoyed a morning at West Coast Park (some weak evidence above) and today I went solo to Kent Ridge Park. Felt all the better for it.

Not Convinced

Forgot to mention yesterday that I was reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close pretty much at the same time as Ms Martin's novel. I'm assuming that we're meant to think of Foer's main narrator Oskar as somewhere around the high end of the spectrum of autism, so there was something of an overlap involved in my reading.

I found Foer's novel an interesting read with much to admire in its sheer energy, but I don't think it came close to being as convincing or moving as the story for children. I'm quite certain that Mr Foer is a very clever chap, but the cleverness overwhelms, eventually becoming tiresome. I suppose all fiction is contrived in some sense, but Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close managed to be extremely and incredibly so.

Making Demands

Read a children's novel entitled Rain/Reign over the weekend. Written by Ann M. Martin it's won quite a number of prizes for its genre, prompting me to give it a read after it mysteriously appeared on the table just outside our apartment. Glad I did. Ms Martin employs a narrator who's been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome and does so convincingly, managing to avoid an overly mawkish read. The relationship of the narrating daughter to her father is particularly well done. He isn't in any sense an attractive character, generally struggling to understand and accept her behaviour, but the adult reader can really feel for him. And the fact that things don't exactly work themselves out in the end is bracingly honest.

There's much to admire in the craft involved in this kind of writing, and in the generosity of insight it demands.

A Little Learning

As I mentioned back in late November, I wasn't at all gripped in my reading of John Keegan's The Second World War, and at that time was seriously considering abandoning the volume. However, it turned out that I was able to make myself keep going, managing to finish the book today. I suppose I felt a bit of a duty to do so given the depth of the work in terms of sheer detail, especially on the statistical front. It would have felt like an affront to all that research to just abandon the tome.

Did I really learn anything from my reading? That's always a tricky one to answer in relation to anything concerning historical events, but I'd say I have a firmer grasp of three aspects of the conflict: 1) Any war is wasteful in any number of ways, but WW2 was extraordinarily so, and being extraordinarily complicated didn't help. 2) Strategic bombing of cities is obviously a war crime, but it was always going to happen and somehow we all manage to accept it. 3) After Okinawa the use of nuclear weapons was inevitable and no matter how much we might want to condemn their use it would be naive to pretend that we can comfortably do so.

Oh, and just to state the obvious: War is hell, and this one went to the deepest circles thereof.

Heartfelt

Decided that today was the day for my annual listen to Dylan's Christmas in the Heart. Realised that since I only play the album once a year I listen with a quiet ferocity which is very useful indeed since the lovely details of the arrangements repay that kind of close attention. Dylan seems to be drawing on the cliches of American Yuletide music but he does so with such wonderful invention that nothing is actually cliched, nothing is glib.

When I first listened to the album a few years back I found it a wee bit difficult to accept Dylan growling out the more traditional material, like Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and couldn't help but wonder if he was treating the carols in some kind of ironic manner. Now it's obvious he isn't, and that those pieces are genuinely meant, and the listener is meant to just mentally sing along with appropriate joy. And that's what I was doing today.

Out And About

Spent most of the morning at Jurong Lake Gardens. Good place to be. No otters sighted, by the by, which was a bit of a disappointment all told.

Spent a chunk of the afternoon at the IMM shopping mall. Very crowded. Not my favourite place, but I've been in worse.

Spent the evening at home, with the Missus. A contentedly happy place to be.

In The Headlines

It's been a pleasant enough day, despite the rain, but this headline in the on-line version of the Graun transformed it into something special: 'I thought I was going to die': otters attack British man in Singapore park. Just to clarify, I wasn't the Brit in question, though I am thinking of going for a walk at the Botanic Gardens some time in December. Fortunately, I'll have the Missus there to protect me.

More Bad News

Reading the stuff coming out of the UK regarding the unethical behaviour of a number of functionaries of the current government, including the man at the top, is depressing. At one time I might have thought deeply depressing but I'm too old and too knowing to get as bothered as all that.

What was it that made it so difficult for these people to follow their own guidelines on social behaviour in the pandemic raging around them? And just how many parties did they feel they were entitled to attend? It's the triviality of it all that's so striking. The humour of John Crace's coruscating sketch of recent events made me feel a bit better on first reading, then thinking about the fact it needed to be written, a whole lot worse.

In Order

Since I'm physically in reasonable shape I thought today might be a good time to get on with cleaning all the bookshelves, and their contents, in the apartment. Also Noi was out at a baking class so the coast was clear for getting noisy and sweaty.

Turned out to be a wise decision. There's something about feeling things are in some kind of order that helps restore equilibrium. 

Something Serious

Finished The Secret History. Enjoyed the chapters on Bunny's funeral which got away from the college and widened the range of characters. But found the ending as thin as the early chapters. Just couldn't get interested in the group the novel is centred on. Also got a bit fed up with all the drinking and consumption of illicit substances. All a bit much somehow: I developed a sort of unsympathetic headache as a response doing so. Have to say though, I found it an easy read just at the level of story and was genuinely interested in how it all worked out without caring too much for the folk in it.

Fortunately I saved the day by rereading something of substance: the Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass. I will be teaching this in the first term of 2022 and found myself happily thinking of how that might work in the classroom. Kept thinking of what it might have been like to read this in its year of publication, 1845. Genuinely life-changing for many a white reader I would imagine.

Cleaning Up

This is the time of year when I make attempts to tidy-up stuff relating to work in the vain hope this will lead to some kind of order. Failure is inevitable, of course, but I'm happy with the idea that I can mitigate the chaos of it all to some small degree.

Over the weekend I tried to clear the various docs on my desktop. It looks a lot clearer now, but I can't say I'm terribly confident regarding where all the bits and pieces were tidied away to. Today I attempted to clear the inbox on my email. Once upon a time I could delete most of the mails since the business involved had been completed. That is no longer the case, I'm afraid. Stuff that looks finished has a way of rearing its ugly head(s) just when you really don't need it to - especially material related to finance, which is always unforgiving.

But I did get to vacuum all my books at my work station and clean various dusty surfaces. Progress, I suppose.

On The Surface

I've been reading Donna Tartt's The Secret History for the last couple of days. Somewhat puzzled over the good press the novel generally gets. It's entertaining enough as a read but paper-thin in terms of characterisation. Is it intended to glamorise the world of academia depicted or show the emptiness behind the facade? I can imagine a novel that makes that a genuinely interesting question, but this doesn't seem to be that work. I'm intrigued enough to want to know how it all plays out, but I doubt it'll stick in my mind.

(Mind you, not much does stick these days, I'm afraid.)

Even More

Fuad, Rozita, Fifi & Fafa just popped around to extend the celebrations for Noi's birthday, bringing with them ample amounts of foodstuffs. Much laughter, much munching. Now considering how to lose a few kgs as December moves on - but happy to have gained them.

Staying Put

As another pandemic year limps to its end I'm reminded that normally this would be the time for making our various plans for travelling, even if only as far as KL. I'm both enjoying the sense of relaxation at not having to rush around getting stuff done and missing the excitement of it all.

Noi was just chatting on the phone to Sharifah who is spending the weekend at our house in KL. It sounds as if the place is in good shape despite our not having been anywhere near it for over a year and a half. We're lucky to have trustworthy neighbours and our great gardener Devan to keep an eye on things for us. Must say though, I'm very keen to get back there in the first half of next year as things ease up (we hope.) The current regulations on travelling north mean we're not considering trying to get there this December. Frustrating, but wise, I think.

Togetherness

Just got back from a tasty dinner at a restaurant in Kampong Glam, in honour of Noi's birthday. We'd sort of expected it to be quiet in the area, this being mid-week, as it were. We were wrong.  The traffic in the area was heavy and we were lucky to find a spot to park. And all the restaurants appeared to be doing a roaring trade. Good to see business picking up despite the pandemic, but I was a bit worried we wouldn't find the quiet corner I was thinking of in the eatery I had in mind.

But our luck was in. The place was busy, but we got our spot and that was more than enough for us. In fact, being with the Missus anywhere, any time, is more than enough for me, thank you.

Beyond Medication

It looks like the doc's magic potions did the trick in dealing with my cranky left side. I haven't felt anything close to a painful tweak for a week, this contributing in a big way to a change in the quality of my life. I'm checking in with him this Saturday and hoping that there'll be no need to keep taking the tablets. Much as I enjoy getting better I'm never really comfortable with pill-popping.

Also I have the feeling that one of the tablets I'm now on is making me a lot more relaxed than I really want to be. Frankly I'd be happy to spend most of my time asleep - managing to do just that very successfully last week. This week I've tried to get on with things, but even now it feels suspiciously easy to slumber at a moment's notice.

Funnily enough this stands in distinct antithesis to the effects of the medicines I was taking earlier in the year to deal with my sciatica. I remember feeling unusually energised at that time, waking in the early hours and happily planning my working days without feeling in the least bit tired during the actual days. Perhaps this sort of thing is psychological rather than physiological, but I like the idea of being sure of the real me by not taking anything at all.